strike a match
by Kiyoshi Kitana
Summary: Without being able to see the time, Matthew can't tell how long it's been since Alfred sat him down and said, "I'll be right back. Don't peek, okay?" [amecan][Canada Day birthday fic][see content notes inside]


**content notes:** dom/sub undertones, implied ownership, tattooing kink

* * *

Matthew likes to think he has mastered quite a few things in his time as a nation; one of them being the art of infinite patience. As he sits on his sofa, blindfolded and tapping his fingers on his knees, he starts to rethink this stance. Without being able to see the time, he can't tell how long it's been since Alfred sat him down and said,

"I'll be right back. Don't peek, okay?"

And not peeking is really hard when it comes to surprises, and to Matthew. He'd rather know than not and his urge to look is magnified by the flutter of anticipation in his belly; by the double-tap of his heart every time he thinks he hears his brother's footfalls.

Matthew finds himself biting his lip against a smile when he hears Alfred finally approach. Closer and closer, until sound becomes touch and Alfred is wedged in the space between Matthew's spread legs. He opens them wider, his hands finding purchase on Al's thighs as the blonde says, "Ready for your present?"

"Yeah." It comes out breathy, a little too eager, so Matthew follows up with, "Please."

It helps him sound patient, polite even.

Only America can do so little yet rile him up like this, leave him wanting so quickly.

Alfred's fingers brush through his hair on their way to the back of his head to undo the knot of his blindfold and pull it away. Matt blinks away the darkness before sliding his glasses down.

Al's jeans ride low and open on his hips, drawing Matthew's eyes straight to his unzipped fly. And it's there he sees it, etched into the skin just above the jut of Al's hip bone, a red maple leaf. It's small, the size of a half dollar, and outlined in stark, solid black.

Matt slides his hands up to Al's hips, entranced. The skin around the new tattoo is tight and shiny with soothing balm and Matthew's drawn to press his lips there, trace the outline of the tiny leaf with the tip of his tongue. He settles for leaning forward and pressing his lips to the sensitive skin just beside it, once, twice. Alfred shivers, sucking in a breath through his teeth.

"You like it?"

Matthew drags his gaze away to look up at his brother's face. He wonders how he didn't guess this before.

Al's eyes are still a little glassy, his cheeks still a little pink; Matthew imagines how the blonde might have been in the tattoo parlor — fingers curled and face pressed to the leather seat as tiny needles prickle his skin; mouth open, breath puffing out warm as he tries not to squirm under the pressure-pleasure-pain.

"I love it," Matthew breathes, tugging on the leg of Al's pants, exposing the leaf further. Fingertips itching with the desire to touch and stroke and soothe, he rubs his thumb gently near it. "It's wonderful, Al, but..."

Alfred hums curiously and leans into Matthew's touch, steadying himself with his hands on Matt's shoulders. He looks down as his brother looks up, blue eyes meeting violet. "But?"

"But what does this mean?" Matt finishes, the words feeling silly as they leave his mouth despite the honesty of them. His gaze flickers back down, fixing on the raw, wet ink in the shape of his emblem. It tugs at his core in about a million different ways; he'll need time to tease apart the tangle of emotions Al's dumped in his lap. "I mean—"

"And everyone says _I_ can't read between the lines," Al snorts, cutting the Canadian off. His lips twist into a wry smile as he flicks Matthew's curl playfully, making it bounce. "It means I'm yours, that's what."

Matthew's smile as he looks back up is more than a little lovestruck and he pulls Al into his lap abruptly, bringing the blonde to eye level to kiss him fiercely, almost bruisingly. Their glasses clink awkwardly and Al's hands hit the sofa hard to balance but the noise Al makes into his mouth, like this kiss is all he could ever want, is worth the clumsiness.

"Happy birthday, Matty," Al says when they part, resting his forehead on Matt's.

A simple _thank you_ doesn't feel like it could be enough, no matter how he says it. So Matthew just kisses his brother again, funneling the adoration welling in his chest into the wet slide of their lips, into tightening of fingers on hips.

He's sure Al gets it.


End file.
